by Colt, K. J.
Talon came to the Samnadr and found it so full that many of those gathered peeked between the draped hides that made up the walls. Someone whispered “Krellr Troda,” and all heads turned to watch him and Chief walk into the gathering tent.
Inside he found the Samnadr was full to capacity. At the center of the tent, on a platform built in a wide circle around the fire, five other barbarians his age stood proudly as they waited to be measured. None of them seemed scared in the least; it was apparent they would all pass the Miotvidr.
He kept his head down and walked to the center of the Samnadr as the crowd parted for Chief. Talon had never been so glad to have the timber wolf at his side. He kept a pensive hand upon Chief’s back; the contact gave him the courage to go on. The whispered title of “Krellr’Troda” gave way to more vulgar names. Contemptuous accusations of Skomm runt, filthy Draugr, and Throwback greeted him as he climbed the stairs to the platform. His eyes, which had been kept downcast, found the Miotvidr Pole rising from the platform. His eyes followed the pole up, up, and impossibly higher until his head was craned back to see the line that would name him a Vald.
The other boys glared down on him with sneers and hate-filled eyes. He envied them for their height. To them, today was one of the proudest moments of their lives; celebration and gifts of manhood would carry on well into the night. For Talon it was a nightmare he hoped ended as soon as possible. His father Kreal was out there in the crowd, as it was custom for the fathers to bear witness the fate of their stock. And though barbarians deemed Skomm by the Miotvidr pole were shunned and excommunicated by their families, those families too bore the shame of the measure. The excuse that Talon’s size was due to an unfortunate sickness his mother had contracted when she was pregnant with him would fall on deaf ears, for the reason mattered not. To the seven barbarian tribes of Volnoss, weakness was weakness and could not be tolerated.
Chief Winterthorn and his son Fylkin joined the young men on the platform, and the crowd’s jeers toward Talon quieted. The chief wore a crown of bone and the skull of an alpha timber wolf upon his head; the lower jaw, with its long, pointed teeth, rested beneath his chin. Talon was grateful he had shown up last and had to take a position at the end of the line far from the chief and his son. Fylkin hated Talon, and he let him know it every time Talon was unfortunate enough to cross his path. A year older than Talon, Fylkin had easily passed his Miotvidr last summer. Talon cursed his stars time and again that he had gained the attention of the future chief.
“Endrbaga!” Chief Winterthorn growled, raising his seven-foot sword into the air.
The gathering fell silent at once; the only sound came from the quick kicking of Chief’s hind paw as he scratched his ear. Talon hissed for the wolf to stop, but he only stared up at him with a floppy-tongued grin. Talon could sense everyone’s eyes on him then; he froze and kept his head down.
“Don’t you ever bow your head in shame like a Skomm while you remain a Vald.” His amma’a words came to him, but he could not bring himself to face the crowd. He knew the chief was looking at him as well.
“Like our tribe, the timber wolf has many fleas,” said the chief to the crowd’s amusement.
“The Miotvidr stick calls forth Brightborn Longblade!” the chief roared, and one of the boys towering next to Talon went to be measured. The cheers of the barbarians told Talon what his downcast eyes did not: the boy passed his Miotvidr by standing against the pole and covering the line marking Vald.
Another boy was called, and another. Soon only Talon remained standing upon the podium. The cheers for the previous barbarian who’d passed the measurement died down, and everyone’s attention went to Talon.
“Talon Windwalker,” said the chief with venomous disdain.
Gretzen’s words once again came to his mind, and he finally raised his chin to stare beyond the teasing crowd. He walked to stand with his back against the Miotvidr stick and his eyes scanned the crowd as they held their breath in mock suspense of the outcome. Kreal Windwalker glared at his son with shame-filled eyes, Talon’s filled with tears.
“The Miotvidr stick has spoken!” Chief Winterthorn announced to them all. He turned to Talon and pointed a giant finger at him. “You are a Skomm!” he spat.
On his father’s proclamation Fylkin Winterthorn ripped the sack from Talon’s back and began to tear the furs off of him. Talon did not fight, he held his head high and thought of Akkeri as he held her red ribbon concealed in his right fist. Even when his mother’s bone and pearl necklace snapped free he remained rigged.
“Rope the timber wolf!” Chief Winterthorn barked. “No Skomm is worthy of the sacred beast.”
“No!” Talon screamed and tore free of Fylkin. He grabbed Chief around the neck and held him tight.
He wished them away, praying to be anywhere but this hateful, frozen rock. His wishes went ungranted, however, and his prayers unheard. Strong hands grabbed his arms, long nails digging into his skin painfully. Chief was being pulled as well. He yipped and whined to match Talon’s protests. Something heavy struck Talon across the back of his head, but he held on. Again the blow came and his arms went limp. His head fell to the wooden platform, and Chief’s soft fur was torn from his grip. Groggy eyes fell again upon his father’s.
The heavy club turned everything black.
CHAPTER FOUR
SKOMM VILLAGE
THEY WILL CALL him Draugr, Skomm…Krellr Troda.
—Gretzen Spiritbone, 4976
Talon awoke being dragged through the snow and mud by his feet. His furs had been torn from him, and blood stained the snow red in the wake of his naked body. Fylkin Winterthorn glanced back at him with a contemptuous sneer as villagers lined the way, throwing rotten food, rocks, chicken guts, fish heads, and manure. They spat on and kicked him as he passed. In the distance, Chief still put up a fight, but soon the wolf yelped in pain and fell silent. Talon clutched the ribbon still in his hand and tried to lift his head from bouncing on the stones.
Fylkin dragged him to the edge of Timber Wolf Village and with a powerful heave threw him down to the stony road leading out of the village. The wind bit his bare skin like needles, but he paid it no mind. His head swam as he got to his feet and staggered to keep his balance.
“Chief!” he tried to yell, but his voice came as a weak gasp.
“Get gone to the Skomm village, you filthy Throwback!” Fylkin warned as Talon stumbled toward him.
“Chief!” he finally managed to scream, and the howl of the wolf tore through the air, silencing the crowd.
Fylkin backhanded Talon, spinning him around where he stood, causing him to fall once again. The stench of the refuse made him vomit up his amma’s breakfast. He got to his feet once more upon shaky legs. His left eye had already swollen shut, and warm blood streamed down his chest.
“Chief,” he croaked and was struck again by Fylkin.
Talon lay on the frozen ground, falling in and out of consciousness. Fylkin knelt beside him. “You will learn your place, Draugr scum, now that you don’t have the wolf or your crazy amma protecting you.”
The world went black, and Talon spiraled down ever faster into the void, a place of infinite dark, neither cold nor warm, nor pleasant or painful. He lost himself to the darkness, favoring the void over the bright and painful world of cold and snow whence he came. He accepted his death with a sigh of relief, and he thought at least he had died a Vald.
A bright light flashed in the darkness, and pain shot through his body once more. He clung to the darkness of the void with all of his might, but he felt the cold, biting wind pulling him back. The cry of a baby filled the void—the cry he had prayed to hear just one more time during that night of blood long ago. Talon screamed for the baby’s cry to stop; he pleaded, but it only got worse, only drew closer, and the steady thump followed.
“Stop; make it stop!” Talon screamed and fought against the hands that pushed him down.
“Shh, Talon…Talon!” a soft voice called to him through t
he void. The pain rushed back to him and he suddenly had the need to get sick. Gentle hands guided him to a bucket. Violent heaves racked his body, and a burning fire from his belly bathed his throat in lava. Pain shot through his eye, and the candlelight blinded him as the hands guided his head back to the soft pillow.
Talon began to fall into the void once again. Through his opened eye, he saw the one with the soothing voice of an angel, and her hair was made of locks of glowing flame.
“Akkeri,” he said in a raspy voice he did not recognize. “Akkeri, why won’t the baby cry?”
When he awoke again he found himself in a soft bed with a thick, fur blanket covering his bruised and bandaged body. He realized immediately that the red ribbon had fallen from his hand. He didn’t recognize the earthen hut he was in. He lifted his head to look at something more than the back wall and ceiling, but when he tried, the pain in his head made him want to heave again. Soon he lay back, panting and wondering where he was.
This is no dream, it hurts too much, he thought as he gingerly felt the bandages over his eye. They must have dragged me all the way to the Skomm village. It certainly feels like it.
He thought of Chief then and wondered what might have become of him. Likely the Vald had put him in a cage like the other timber wolves they kept. He hoped Chief would be kept separate from the other full-grown wolves. He was little more than a year old, and though his back already came to Talon’s knees. Runt of the litter or not, Chief was growing into a large timber wolf.
Someone opened a door and closed it gingerly, for the creek of it closing went on for many heartbeats—not the steady whine of a door swinging slowly upon its own creaky hinges, but rather a cautious and deliberate sound. Soft footsteps approached and he closed his good eye. Slowly he opened it until he could peek through his lashes as the footsteps drew near.
Talon pretended to still be asleep as his mysterious caretaker moved to stand by his side. He spied the same fiery red hair from his dreams and wondered again whether he might be dreaming. Akkeri sat on the bed next to him, careful not to jostle him in his sleep, and laid a cool cloth on his forehead with a tenderness he had never known. Through the blur of his peering eye, Akkeri’s hair glowed like a sunset illuminated by the candle at her back. He made no move to give away his awareness and even steadied his breathing to mimic a sleeping person.
Akkeri began to sing to him. He was relieved that she sat on the side of his bandaged eye, for hot tears streamed down his opposite cheek as her melodic voice sang of sorrow, hope, triumph, and despair:
She watched the sea for nigh on a year,
Through ice and burning sun.
Her gaze held firm for nigh on a year,
Through wind, rain and snow.
Tears she held back for nigh on a year,
Through doubt, sorrow, and pain.
She prayed his return for nigh on a year,
Until the day he came.
I’ve been gone for nigh on a year,
And, oh, the sights I’ve seen.
I’ve sailed the seas for nigh on a year,
To strange and distant shores.
I’ve searched the world for nigh on a year,
For gold and silver vein.
I’ve thought on you for nigh on a year,
And here I shall remain.
Akkeri finished her song and laughed to herself. “I never sung that to no one, but I would like to sing the song to my children someday.”
Talon thought for a terrified moment that she was talking to him. Had he given himself away? No, he realized shortly. She was not talking so much to him as to herself.
He fought to control his breathing, which had begun to quicken with her singing. She began feeling for his heartbeat with her soft hands upon his bare chest. He thought he might die, else burst into flames there beneath the thick fur blanket.
Akkeri rose and turned from sight; she returned shortly and put something soft in his hand: the red ribbon. She closed his hand around it and stood staring down at him. Talon worried she could see him peeking at her through his eyelashes; if she could, she gave no indication. She bent toward him and he fought not to stiffen as she kissed him softly on the forehead.
Someone entered the room and Talon snapped his spying eye shut. The voice of an older woman asked Akkeri how he was doing. She reported that he had begun to run a fever again and his heart was beating frantically. Talon felt a foreign hand upon his forehead and nearly flinched. The woman’s hand was rough and cold to the touch, and it was all Talon could do not to jump with a start.
“My, my, the Krellr wantin’ this one,” the woman said with a click of her tongue.
“You go on get some rest; you been watchin’ over him for two days. He’ll come round. Seen no sign he should be sleepin’ still, ’less somethin’ happened more in his brain my eyes ain’t seen. I’ll tend ’im, you go on find out for Majhree what dreams say ’bout this one.”
“Yes, Majhree,” said Akkeri with a small yawn. Her footsteps moved away from them but then stopped abruptly. A quick scuff of her feet turning a circle told Talon she turned to look back at him.
“Tell me if he wakes,” she said.
“Mmm hmm,” Majhree hummed as she applied the cloth to his forehead.
Talon wondered whether he should let his caregiver know he was awake. He felt bad about worrying them so, though he was flattered to have anyone care for him at all. He thought better of the idea, not wanting to embarrass Akkeri with the knowledge that he had heard her song. Instead he let himself fall asleep once more. The soft song of the lady and the sailor led him to a place where dreamscapes were painted in summer blues and greens, and Akkeri danced with him in a field of snow lilies.
When Talon awoke, the light in the room told him it was daytime, and he was alone. He lifted his head with less pain than before and investigated his surroundings. The walls of the small hut were made from mud and straw mixed together and laid like bricks. The ceiling beams were built from rough-cut wood and bound to each other with rope. At the end of the hut opposite his bed, a fire burned, its smoke leaving a lingering haze curling up and out of the small hole in the ceiling. He wondered how anyone was supposed to heal in such dry, stagnant air.
With an effort, Talon sat up in his straw bed and inspected his wounds. His body was covered in scrapes and scratches from being dragged along the rocky road, and his eye throbbed beneath the bandage about his head. He was covered in sweat beneath the thick fur blanket which stung his many wounds. His left side ached with every movement, and he gingerly turned to inspect his bruised ribs with a hiss of pain. His entire body screamed in pain, having been punched, kicked, and dragged down the road naked. Ignoring the pain, he managed to swing his legs over the side of the high bed.
He searched but could not find his clothes anywhere, and he had no energy to search further than what his eyes might show him. Across from the bed to the left was a small table with many spent candles and a clay bowl of water with a cloth neatly folded and set beside it. He slowly lowered himself to the cold dirt floor and tested his shaky legs. His right ankle was sore and his left hip throbbed with pain, but he managed to stand.
Pulling the blanket over his shoulders, he made his way to the door using the wall to steady him. When he pushed the door open, he was blinded by the bright glow of the sun reflecting off the snow, and it took a moment for his good eye to adjust.
“Majhree, your Kvilla has risen!” someone yelled, and Talon blocked out the sun to see who.
A young man a little older than Talon walked to greet him with a wide smile. His big, rosy cheeks instantly put Talon at ease, and his merry, squinted eyes spoke of friendship. He was a big man for a Skomm, though not close to the Miotvidr. Talon quickly realized it had not been the measure that condemned him to the life of a Skomm, but rather his deformed left arm which had not developed past the elbow. He wore patched burlap trousers and a sleeveless shirt of the same make. Furs were not common among the Skomm and were often patc
hed together from smaller animals.
“Aye, name’s Jahsin,” the young man said with a bright smile as he eyed Talon’s bandaged head. “Most people round here call me Stump,” he added, lifting his deformed arm, “creative, that one, eh?”
Talon didn’t know whether to laugh or not. He introduced himself shaking Jahsin’s offered hand. “Talon Windwalker.”
Jahsin’s face dropped and he looked around warily. “Not anymore, you’re not,” he said, leaning in. “Now you’re just Talon. Best you forget your father’s name. We Skomm ain’t allowed no last name, lest you lookin’ to get yourself killed.”
“Maybe he’s thinking he’s better than everybody else,” someone said from behind Jahsin. He turned and Talon found a big man walking toward them. At first he feared that the man was a Vald, for he was tall enough to pass the Miotvidr. But soon he noticed the feature that had condemned the man at birth: he had a wide split in his upper lip all the way into his deformed right nostril; a Catlip they called it. The big man pushed past Jahsin and squared on Talon with glaring disdain.
“I know who you are, Plagueborn. You were spared the spurn on account of your crazy witchdoctor amma. But you can’t hide what you are. Best you learn your place Draugr; you ain’t any better than any of these sorry Throwbacks.”
“I didn’t say I was better,” said Talon.
The man regarded Talon as though he had called his mother an old Kerling. He leaned in so close that he towered over Talon, his bright green eyes bearing down on him.
“You think you’re clever, Throwback?”
Talon had dealt with the likes of him before. Any answer would be seen as a challenge, and that challenge would be met with swift and terrible violence. So rather than give any answer, he just looked down at the ground hoping the bully would lose interest.
